


Compromise

by emilyenrose



Series: Insurance [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyenrose/pseuds/emilyenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris doesn't know why the mage keeps bothering him. But Hawke has his reasons for keeping Fenris close, and it's got nothing to do with the flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromise

“Why do you keep coming back here, mage?” says Fenris. Once again Hawke has turned up at Danarius’ mansion without warning, yet another asinine adventure in mind. “I am not your servant,” Fenris tells him. “We are not friends. Your endless day-trips to the Wounded Coast are no concern of mine.”

“What, you don’t like the seaside?” says Hawke.

“I do not,” says Fenris.

“Oh, come on, Fenris,” Hawke says. “Aveline’s busy with the guard all day and I’m short a warrior since Carver took off with the Wardens. I need you.”

“There are warriors for hire by the dozen in Kirkwall,” Fenris says. “I advise you to go and bother one of them.”

“Where am I going to find a mercenary as shiny as you, though?” says Hawke.

Shiny. Hawke can look at him, at these lyrium scars that make every day a living hell for him, and call it _shiny_. Fenris snarls and feels the snarl burn through him, setting his markings ablaze. The mage takes an unconscious step back. Fenris steps forward, forcing him further back, until Hawke’s back is against the wall and there’s nowhere left for him to go. He’s watching Fenris steadily, though. He doesn’t look afraid.

He should be afraid. 

“I was a magister’s personal bodyguard,” Fenris says in a low voice. Hawke should be very afraid. “Do you understand? I wasn’t there to protect him from assassins or bandits or pickpockets in the marketplace. I was there to protect him from other magisters. I am _shiny_ because he made me to kill mages.” He spreads his hand against Hawke’s ribcage, five fingers flattened over the heart. The blue glow from beneath lights up unearthly shadows on Hawke’s face, and he still doesn’t look afraid. “I could kill you,” Fenris tells him. “I should kill you, mage, before it’s too late. I should rip your heart out now and save countless innocents from your inevitable failure.”

Hawke is staring down at Fenris’ glowing hand on his chest. He licks his lips and says exactly what Fenris didn’t expect him to say. “I know.”

Fenris is so surprised that he lets the lyrium blaze die out without thinking about it. “What?”

Hawke steps around Fenris, breaking the moment entirely, and rolls his eyes. “Fenris, I spend what feels like half my life chasing down apostates and blood mages and rogue demons. I still have abomination guts on my favourite robes because nothing Bodahn comes up with can get the stain out. I know _exactly_ what happens when a mage loses it.”

“And are you so proud, Hawke, that you really believe it won’t happen to you?”

“Well, I bloody well hope it won’t happen to me,” Hawke says. “But in the event that it does, you’ve got to admit that a paid mercenary picked up at the Hanged Man wouldn’t be able to do much about it. Not many mage-killing experts out there, and I draw the line at taking a templar with me.”

That takes a moment to sink in, and then Fenris stares. 

Hawke has been a persistent, demanding, flirtatious, _infuriating_ presence in his life since the day they met. No matter how firmly Fenris rebuffs him he always comes back for more. Fenris had assumed he was arrogant, like all mages, that he found Fenris’ loathing for everything he is and everything he stands for somehow _humorous_. Hawke seems to find most things humorous. It never occurred to him that Hawke might have a reason beyond that for seeking out his company.

“So. Wounded Coast. Spot of light bounty hunting,” Hawke says, while Fenris is still staring. “We’ll kill some bad guys, pick up a bunch of useless crap for Varric to fence, work on our suntans in the unlikely event that the sun actually comes out, and there is a small but non-zero chance that at some point I will turn into a hideous monster bent on destroying the world of men, at which point you and Varric and Isabela can have the dubious pleasure of putting me down before my appalling magical powers slaughter everyone in Kirkwall who hasn’t already run screaming at the sight of my ruined face. Sound good?”

“You _want_ me to kill you?” Fenris says.

“Right now, no, not really, in fact not at all,” Hawke says. “But,” he touches his chest, right over the heart, where Fenris’ hand rested only moments ago, “if you tried, I wouldn’t fight you.”

Fenris cannot think of an answer.

“The day I fight back,” Hawke adds quietly and completely seriously, “well, that’s the day you know it needs to be done.”

There’s absolute silence in the ruined room for a moment, and then Hawke snickers and shakes his head. “This is all getting a bit heavy,” he says. “Those bandits – I think bandits? Might be blood mages, or Tal-Vashoth – well, whoever they are, they aren’t getting any younger. And since we’ve now established that my life is in your hands,” he leers, “and really, I can’t think of a better place to be, let’s –“

“Why do you flirt with me?” Fenris asks abruptly.

Hawke looks hunted for a moment. “Can we not leave this whole conversation behind yet? It’s really not my favourite conversation I’ve ever had.”

“I thought it was that you enjoyed making me uncomfortable,” Fenris says. “That you thought it was funny. Or sometimes I thought perhaps you were serious. You wouldn’t be the first mage to get excited by all this lyrium.” 

The look on Hawke’s face is impossible to describe. “Fenris –“

“Or are you actually trying to engage my affections?” Fenris demands. “Do you think it is a good idea to have me emotionally compromised when the day comes?”

Hawke sighs. He looks smaller for a moment, hunched in on himself. “Fenris,” he says, “I don’t think there’s anything that could make you compromise when it comes to magic.” He seems to pull himself together as his mouth lifts at the corner and he adds, “I like that about you. Now _please_ can we go?”

They go. 

The hunt is an easy one, their Raider targets unprepared for an ambush. Fenris takes his usual role in these situations, covering Hawke against those opponents intelligent enough to realise that the mage is both their most dangerous weapon and the most poorly-armoured target. His skills as a warrior are hardly necessary beyond that. Hawke is a battlemage of formidable ability: he blazes with fire and lightning, as strong without blood magic as Danarius ever was with it. It does not take long for their outmatched opponents to scatter and flee. Isabela steps out of the shadows to block their way, and Varric picks off the few who manage to escape her daggers with a couple of well-placed bolts. Hawke leans on his staff and wipes perspiration off his forehead when the battle ends, but Fenris can tell he is not really tired. 

In Tevinter, grown fat on the blood of slaughtered slaves, he would rank high among the magisters.

Hawke catches Fenris looking at him. He quirks an eyebrow and grins. Isabela chuckles. Fenris gives her a dour look; last time she caught him alone she confided to him that the only reason she hadn’t gotten him into bed yet was ‘Hawke has dibs’. When Fenris protested that perhaps he wanted neither of them, she just laughed. _Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,_ she said. _Anyone who isn’t interested in at least one of Hawke and me is either naturally celibate or dead. And you’re definitely neither. I can always tell._

Between selling off the bandits’ gear and collecting the bounty offered, they will do well out of this day’s work, which puts the other three in a celebratory mood. Fenris walks quietly in the rear, not listening to their jubilant chatter. The route back to Kirkwall is still dangerous; someone has to be on their guard. But they reach the city with no incidents, and amble together up to the Hanged Man.

“Drinks, Hawke? Fenris?” says Isabela.

“On me, I assume,” says Varric.

“You have to understand, it’s not that I don’t want to spend my money,” says Isabela earnestly. “It’s a matter of principle. I haven’t bought my own drinks in years.”

Hawke snorts. 

Fenris hides a smile. “Not tonight, I thank you,” he says.

“Ah, Broody, we’ll turn you into a functioning member of society one day,” says Varric, shaking his head. “What about you, Hawke?”

“I should get home to Mother,” Hawke says.

“You’re very… _filial_ ,” says Isabela. “I like that in a man.”

“Is there anything you don’t like in a man?” asks Hawke.

“Mutiny,” says Isabela promptly. “Disobey my orders and I’ll have you flogged.” She winks. 

Hawke laughs. “Tempting,” he says. Fenris watches him flirt and feels something dark and unpleasant twist inside him. “Another time, maybe. Come on, Fenris, let’s leave them to their carousing.”

They walk back up to Hightown together in silence. At Hawke’s door Fenris pauses. “Well, this is me,” Hawke says. “Want to come in? You know Mother likes feeding you.”

“For a moment,” says Fenris.

He stops just inside the door. The entrance hall is dark, the candles not yet lit. Hawke, who’s been shouting a greeting to Bodahn, turns to look at him with a confused expression. “Come on in, if you’re coming,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

Hawke put his staff down the moment he got inside. It’s leaning by the door. Fenris summons up the lyrium burn and steps forward, pressing his glowing outstretched hand to Hawke’s chest.

Hawke freezes.

They stand like that for a long moment, the entrance hall illuminated only by Fenris’ ghostly glow. Fenris watches Hawke’s face, not his own hand. Hawke’s eyes are wide. His teeth are set in his lower lip. He lets out a breath and then breathes in another, slowly, tense and shaking a little under Fenris’ touch.

He doesn’t try to fight.

Fenris lets the lyrium go. The hand on Hawke’s chest is just an ordinary hand with some strange markings on it now. Hawke looks down, swallows hard, and then swallows again. “Not today, then?” he manages in a fair approximation of his usual joking voice.

“Not today,” Fenris says.

Hawke closes his eyes and bows his head. “Thank you,” he says. 

Fenris nods. He’s about to pull his hand away when Hawke stops him. He takes Fenris’ hand in his own and tugs it gently away from his chest, up to his lips. He kisses it. Fenris feels the tickle of Hawke’s beard and the puff of his breath warm against his knuckles, and the faint thrill of magic that stirs his markings where Hawke’s lips touch them.

“It’s not the lyrium, you know,” Hawke says, meeting Fenris’ eyes for a second. “I’m not _excited_ by the lyrium.”

“I – should go,” says Fenris.

“All right,” says Hawke.

Fenris trudges back to Danarius’ mansion through the darkening streets of Hightown, and none of the usual nighttime denizens of the city dare to bother him. He thinks of Hawke, kissing his hand. Fenris used to kiss Danarius’ hand. He used to kneel and press his mouth against the cold parchment-textured skin of the magister’s fingers, part of that terrible parody of affection and willing submission that supposedly bound slaves to their masters. Fenris wonders if he ever quite understood what was being parodied, then.

But Hawke has placed his life in Fenris’ hands. 

Fenris will not be compromised.


End file.
